


Shaded Revelations

by Turtlebasket92



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25305433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtlebasket92/pseuds/Turtlebasket92
Summary: The crossings of three people, on the streets of Yharnam and in the dungeons below.
Kudos: 3





	Shaded Revelations

The rooftops of Yharnam twinkle in the fading sunlight, lightly soaked by a summer rain. Down the middle of a damp street strides a young man. Beneath his helmet, he beams confidently at nothing, waiting or perhaps asking for a challenger. He has naught to fear, he knows, from the half-lit alleys and the passing crowds of young would-be hunters. A golden conical headpiece rises high from his collar, broadcasting his allegiance, filling him with pride; yes, he thought to himself, beware.  
Suddenly a shadow leaps at him from the side. A beast! He quickly crushes it beneath his wheel. After a gasp, the beast expires, and some passerby cheer him on. He turns to wave, but his hand has become candelabra, which he examines for a moment before awakening.  
\-- A warmth on his face, light in his eyes. He rouses and sits up. Sunlight filters through the barred windows and the shadows crisscross on the floor. Looking about, he sees rows of cots like his own, mostly unoccupied, stretching into the distance below vaulted ceilings. He breathes a sigh of relief, though also a bit of disappointment. _Home._ Christian takes a moment to reflect upon his dream. Drawing no conclusions, he expels it from his mind. The young man throws off a blanket, quickly rises and dresses. Donning the white robes he had worked so hard for, he considers his dream again. _Perhaps it’s a good omen…perhaps I’ll have my wheel soon._ He sighs hopefully and makes his way to the streets.  
The morning was fresh and streets of Central were slick with rain and full of people, peasants and nobles alike. _Just like my dream,_ he thinks. Just over the crowd, Christian could see an outcropping of gold spikes glinting in the morning sun, quickly moving through the mob. In the distance loomed the Grand Cathedral, their ultimate destination, Christian knew. He elbows his way past some civilians, calling out to his brethren, but they don’t seem to hear him. Catching up, he reaches out and grasps the shoulder of the rearmost fellow.  
“Neophyte!” A voice thunders from the head of the group and Christian winces as the group parts to let him through. Christian recognizes the timbre of his voice and smiles, straightening his back.  
“Scion Jacob! Good to—“  
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” asks the voice, still bellowing, echoing metallically through the ardeo. Christian blinks, feeling the pressure of so many hidden eyes. Hard to read. He clears his throat.  
“I thought I’d join you all for the morning salutations—“  
”Neophyte!” The voice thundered again. Christian gulped. The man crossed his arms and paused. Christian frowns. After a beat, the man laughed, and Christian realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out as the Scion removed his helmet, revealing a handsome but wizened face, clean shaven. Placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder, he smiles.  
“We both know you’re supposed to be at the fields. Or don’t you want to earn yours?” He gestures to the golden cone cradled in his other hand.  
“You’re right, Scion…”  
“Don’t worry, Christian,” said the Scion, readorning himself.  
“I sense a great light in you.”  
Christian perked up.  
“I’ll make you proud, Scion!”  
Scion Jacob returned to the head of the group as they turned to continue down the street. Over his shoulder, he called, “And comb your hair, Neophyte!”  
Christian blushes. _My hair is fine,_ he thinks. After an attempt to fix it with his hands, he decided to return to the barracks and oblige his superior before making his way to the training fields. He turns around and immediately collides with a finely dressed man, about his height. He wore a top hat and no expression whatsoever.  
“Excuse me, young church hunter,” he said softly.  
Composing himself, Christian said, “The mistake was mine, sir. Have a safe day!”  
\-- After dispensing his standard response to civilians, Christian quickly made his way around the aristocratic figure and rushed down the street. The man stood still for a moment, adjusting a small pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and allowing the Executioner time to put some distance between them before continuing forward. Arms crossed behind his back, he walked in long, slow strides. Feeling some discomfort from the encounter, he hoped to avoid any more.  
He turns into a small alley, somewhat dirty but perfectly welcoming in the daylight. Stopping at an open window, he knocked on the frame before leaning against the wall. He began to whistle, clearly expecting to wait. A stray dog skulks from the far end of the alley, attracted by the sound. Tail between its legs, it regards the man with caution. Procuring a scrap of dried meat from within his jacket and kneels, he holds it out in an open palm. The dog hurries to accept the offering, clearly emaciated. He scratches it’s head with a gloved hand, smiling.  
“I wish you wouldn’t feed that scamp, Chester. It’s all well and nice, but you don’t have to listen to it howl at night, do you?”  
Chester hears the man address him and composed himself before standing and turning.  
“Apologies, compatriot. Have you the package?”  
“Right here,” he says, holding out a parcel wrapped in cloth and tied with a string. Chester places it in a pocket sewn into the flap of his jacket and tipped his hat in thanks.  
“My compensation?” asks the man in the window.  
“It will be along once this is delivered and confirmed. You know how this works, compatriot.”  
“Stop calling me that, Chester. You’ve known me for years now, call me Theo. “  
Chester had already turned his back, however, pretending not to hear the man, whistling again. Back on the main street of Central, he takes in the sights as he walks, taking his time. Vendors with carts sold all manner of things, from blood treats and baubles to carpets and leather capes. Tourists gather around the stands, while natives pretended that the prior two parties weren’t there. High in the sky now, the sun shone warm and bright. The streets had mostly dried, and a faint earthen odor rose from the bricks. Chester wondered if the street peddlers and the peasants and the other natives noticed the smell. Raised in nobility, and far from Yharnam, Chester certainly wasn’t used to it.  
“You, sir!” A vendor called out to Chester, and against his better judgement, he took pause to view the wares.  
“Can I interest you in a genuine trick weapon? Just like the hunters use!”  
The vendor was a small man with an enormous, white beard. Behind a cheap table covered in cheaper trinkets, Chester could see that his home had been converted into a small workshop. The odors of a smithy met his nostrils.  
“That’s not strictly legal, is it, good sir?” Chester spoke flatly.  
“Well, no, but you see—“  
“You make these yourself. They aren’t proper trick weapons. Do you need a license to produce these knockoffs?”  
“Well, not right now, I don’t. The church, they’re pretty fickle about these things.” He laughed.  
“Mmm.”  
“Besides, they’re not all knockoffs! Look at this beauty!”  
In one hand, he holds up a deep red cane with a shimmering white fritz handle. “The body is the finest cherry and the handle is abalone from a distant village nestled in the mists.”  
Chester remained silent. The smith sensed he was unimpressed, and placed his other hand on the handle. Without a sound, he drew a blade from the body of the cane. Chester raised his eyebrows, holding out his hand. The smith resheathed the weapon and handed it over. Chester drew the blade, listening closely. _Completely silent,_ he thought to himself. He swung it once, then twice. It was extremely light. Sensing a good impression, the shopkeep smiled.  
“Shall I wrap that for you, sir?”  
“No. The handle is hideous.” The smile disappeared. Chester resheathed the blade and handed it back.  
“But it is an exceptional piece of work. I should like to commission a similar cane. Do you accept?”  
The smith smiled again, wider than before. Chester could tell he seemed like an easy mark. He could spare the money, however, and he wanted a new toy.  
“Gladly, sir!”  
“Superb. The handle and blade shall be obsidian, and the body shall be black walnut.”  
“That much obsidian, sir…” He looked away.  
“Yes, I know. Need I establish credit?”  
The shopkeep sized him up again. “No sir, I can see you’re good for it. Won’t be an easy job, though.”  
“Take this, good smithee, and take your time, too.” He threw a cotton pouch onto the table. It made a loud clinking sound. Looking motivated, the shopkeep smiled.  
“I’ll start it now, sir.” He made a show of busily getting to work, but Chester was already several paces down the street, whistling again. Seeing this, the smith called after him.  
“Come back in a few days, sir!”  
\-- A bell hung over the door rang as Chester entered the clinic. He wrinkled his nose for a moment before regaining his composure. There were many tables ready, but few were filled, and all the patients were asleep. Chester tried not to look at the large bottles of refined blood hanging suspended from the metal stands. Keeping his arms behind his back, he made a beeline for the stairs. Ascending, he decided to be funny.  
“Is anybody here?” He called out. “I’ve bled myself quite dry, and have dire need of a transfusion.” He said this rather dryly, but laughter issued from the second floor.  
“Well do come in, I’ve a table reserved just for the likes of you,” said the laughing party.  
Chester turned into the hallway to see a familiar face. Iosefka looked tired, but somehow still glowed from beneath a white veil. Perhaps it was just him, but she seemed untouched. By the world, by the scourge, by everything that seemed to plague this existence…  
“Chester,” She said, smiling.  
“Hello, my dear. I’ve a gift from our mutual acquaintance,” he said as he reached into his jacket, producing the package, offering it, and bowing in a sleek singular motion. The woman giggled.  
“Ever the performer, you,” she said, taking the package and untying the string. The glass within clinked as she unwrapped the cloth to inspect its contents.  
“Pristine, as always, my dear,” he says, allowing himself a small smile.  
“You don’t know how much these extra vials will help out around here,” she said, rewrapping the package and placing it on a side table.  
“This city has been good to me. You, especially. To give back when I can is my pleasure.” Chester tipped his hat and Iosefka laughed again.  
“That was a lifetime ago, Chester.”  
“A lifetime to you I owe. Is that not what I said when you found me a wretch, destitute and—"  
“—dire, without a friend in the world, yes, Chester, ‘thee, I owe’ I remember,” she interrupted brightly, clearly in the know. She sighed happily and turned slowly to walk away from Chester down the hall. He rolled his eyes and followed.  
“You’re just a big silly, Chester. Don’t think I don’t know your secret.”  
Chester snorted. Iosefka stopped suddenly, and spun back around, quickly, pointing accusingly.  
“That was almost a laugh!”  
“Then I suppose you’ve almost caught me.”  
She turns and continues down the hall, sighing again.  
“You’re a clever one, Chester.”  
He smiled a small, secret smile all to himself. Keeping it from his tone, he said, “Our friend Thaddeus will want his payment, my dear. Shall we make haste?”  
“Yes, yes, just allow me a moment—I’ve got it in my office.” She disappeared into a room and up a small flight of stairs. Chester strode over to a window, gazing upon the graveyard. Difficult to see from the second story, there was a blank headstone behind a tree in the corner. Chester wondered if something there waited for him. A voice echoed into the hall from the office.  
“I’ve got it here, Chester, and you know he prefers Theo, you really should call him that--“  
“My mistake, dear Iosefka. I certainly will,” He said, approaching the open door. She stood in the frame, her back turned to him. He sensed an apprehension. “The payment?” He queried.  
“Chester…” she said quietly. He could see her arms were wrapped tightly around something held to her chest. He simply waited.  
“You would tell me if…” she trailed off.  
“Tell you what?”  
Quickly turning, she shoved something into Chester’s hands and shut the door of her office.  
“Nothing,” she said through the door. Chester held the pouch of coins aloft; it felt about right.  
“Thank you, my lady,” he said, pocketing the pouch and turning to leave. He contemplated his future, immediate and distant. Later, he would pay a lad a silver coin from the pouch to deliver the remainder to Theo, but right now, he had to check the graveyard.  
\-- Beneath a rock behind the blank headstone was a slip of paper, folded. Kneeling, he picked it up and replaced the stone, pocketing the paper. He sensed eyes on his back. Could Iosefka be growing suspicious? A metallic voice filled the courtyard, and Chester breathed a sigh of relief and composed himself. _Not a thing to worry about here._  
“Just what’s an outlander like you doing in our fair clinic?” demanded the figure, imposing, easily filling the gateway to the street. He wore long white robes and atop his shoulders sat a golden cone. With hands on hips and legs spread wide he stood waiting for a response. Chester just stared blankly, fixed his glasses, and crossed his arms behind his back.  
Waiting a beat, he responded slowly, “Just making a delivery, good church hunter. Vials for Lady Iosefka.” He fingered a throwing knife strapped to his forearm beneath his sleeve. No cause for that, he thinks to himself, clasping his hands together.  
“And what are you doing out here?” The hunter approached entered the courtyard.  
“Well, I’m not enjoying the sights, I can tell you that,” he said flatly.  
“Was that a joke, you lousy offcomer?”  
“Do I sound like I’m joking?”  
“Well…no.”  
“Then I shall take my leave.” Chester began to walk around the Executioner.  
“What was that I saw you pick up, then?”  
“Just a bit of rubbish, church hunter. I dislike litter in my town.”  
“’My town’? Feh. Let’s see it.”  
He holds out a gloved hand like a chiding mother. Chester sighs and produces the scrap from within his coat. The church hunter unfolds it and looks over both sides, but it appears to be blank. Looking back at Chester, he pauses, perhaps searching for a hint in the courier’s face. After a spell, he balls up the paper, turns brusquely and throws it over his shoulder, muttering loudly something about outsiders. Chester sighs again, kneeling to recover the slip. After an attempt to flatten and straighten the paper, he again pockets it.  
Looking skyward, he sees the curtain of the second story window flutter suddenly, as if someone had just fled. Chester frowned, but reasoned that it couldn’t be helped. He may have to find a different location for these drops in the future. Deciding to check on Iosefka, he reentered the clinic, calling her name. Making his way between the tables, calling out, he rouses a patient he hadn’t noticed. She reaches out and grabs at his robe, croaking from a parched throat. Chester flinches and yanks his clothes from her hand. Quickly walking away, calling out more loudly than before, Chester leaves the patient’s vision as she fades back into unconsciousness.  
\-- Sometime later, she comes to once again. Over her stands Iosefka, offering a glass of water. The patient greedily reaches for it and drinks, spilling a quantity. For the first time, she becomes conscious of the intravenous tubes entering her arm. She coughs and clears her throat.  
“How...?” was all she could choke out before coughing overtook her.  
“You were found in a driverless carriage that arrived at the gates outside the city. The horses …they didn’t make it.”  
She lay back, trying to remember that. She couldn’t. It dawned upon her that she couldn’t remember anything. The nurse took her hand and grasped it comfortingly. “Don’t worry. Some disorientation is normal after your first ministration.”  
“Minis—“she was seized by a fit of coughing.  
“Blood ministration, yes. I’m about to administer your second dose. You’ll feel right as rain in no time, mark my words!” Iosefka stood, and began to fiddle with the jar of blood hanging from the stand. The patient couldn’t see what she was doing, could hardly hold herself up to try to look. She was too weak, and so tired. And then, she wasn’t anything as all, her ego fading into a blissful emptiness as the blood entered her veins.


End file.
